


Ask Box Drabble Collection

by PBJellie



Category: South Park
Genre: Angst, Chapter 14 is the shitpost, Drabble Collection, Fluff, Multi, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Request Meme, Tumblr Prompt, shitpost
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-05 21:24:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 7,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13396521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PBJellie/pseuds/PBJellie
Summary: Collection of things written for Tumblr asks. I'm old and dislike archiving stuff on tumblr so finished products are going here.Don't expect too much.





	1. You Fainted Straight Into My Arms (CREEK)

“Ngh, you fainted, straight into my arms!” Tweek shouted, dropping Craig onto a thin mattress. Craig blinked slowly, looking up at the blonde man whose teeth were clenched around his bottom lip. Oh right, he was in this hell hole still. “You know if you wanted, ah, if you wanted my attention, you didn’t have to go to such extremes. It’s too much pressure! I could have dropped you, you would have gotten a concussion, nrgh, maybe even a broken bone. The resulting trauma, coupled with the, the infection you’d be bound to get could have killed you. Nrgh! I never wanted to save anyone’s life!” 

“You’re being over-dramatic. I heard them in group, they want you to be less dramatic. Be the opposite of this.” Craig deadpanned as Tweek twitched, still hovering over him. 

“Fuck you, dude!” Spit flew into his face, landing on his cheek. “I’m being a nice friend and carrying your scrawny ass back to your room instead of, instead of just getting staff right now. I don’t, ngh, I don’t deserve your residual bullshit.” 

“Residual bullshit? That’s rich coming from you.” Craig’s head aches as he tried to reason with the thin man in front of him. He looked like he’d never slept in his life. The last thing Craig wanted was Tweek having a goddamn episode in his room. There would be at least five staff members swirling around and they’d probably suck him into the mess. That’s always how it worked. Or it had worked when Tweek started pulling out his hair in the hallway when he got here. That had been a week ago though. Were there even five staff members available right now? 

“Hah! Rich? Rich! Coming from the guy who cried when they made you eat salad dressing, ngh. I saw that, I mean, I mean we all saw it. Unless you mean rich like your family is rich, because they obviously are. Starving to death on purpose, ah, purpose is a rich person problem. Jesus Christ, how long, how long have you been here?” 

“You said you wouldn’t talk about that, Slice and Dice.” Craig rolled his eyes as he struggled to get comfortable on the bed, if it could even legally be called a bed. For a place so expensive and prestigious you’d think it’d at least be comfortable. Not the whole place be colored the same shade of pale blue throughout all rooms. He’d been here three months, with little change. He was sure that he’d always remember that sickly Robin’s Egg pigment for the rest of his life.

“Don’t call me that. You said you’d never, ngh, never call me that.” Was Tweek about to cry? Was he so thin skinned that a stupid nickname Eric Cartman, an elderly man who claimed to be a sociopath, made up could cause him to cry? 

The answer to that was apparently, yes. Yes it could, because he was sniffling and covering his face with his knobby fingers. 

“Christ, you’re skinny.” Craig hadn’t meant to say it out loud. This boy, man, he was a man who claimed to be twenty-nine, though he made sure his wristband was always covered. It’s not like Craig could check his claim. None of the staff would tell him if it was true or not. 

“That’s what you’re talking from this? You passed, nrg, passed out playing Wii Bowling and you make fun of me?” Tweek pulled his hands down, wrapping them around his thighs. His chipped nails were pressing so hard into the fabric of his sweats that the nail beds were white. 

“I’m not making fun of you. Sorry you’re not more in control of your emotions.” Craig huffed, turning toward the wall. He waited to hear footsteps, but there weren’t any.

“Control of my emotions? I mean, ngh, I mean fuck, we’re both here right? Even if you’re like some nineteen year old pretty boy.” There was a dry laugh from Craig as Tweek rocked back and forth on his feet. 

“Nice to know you think I’m pretty.” 

“This shit isn’t pretty. Jesus Christ! Now you’re going to get worse and it’ll be all my fault. I could, nrgh, I could go to jail for manslaughter! It’s too much pressure!” Tweek’s voice ricocheted around the room, bouncing off of the walls and hitting Craig smack dab in the middle of his headache. 

“Calm the fuck down, fucking spaz. I obviously don’t feel great and you’re screaming isn’t goddamn helping.” He turned back to look at the man, deciding it best to move upright. With his feet firmly planted on the floor, he willed the world to stop spinning. 

“I should go get a nurse. Nrgh, I should tell them. You’re obviously, ngh, obviously not eating. You could die! Too much! This is all too much! It’s supposed to be less stressful hear. My parents said this would be less stressful.” Craig had never met someone so high strung before. Holy shit, did he need to get a hold of himself or what? How could he not be infinitely embarrassed by his lack of togetherness? Did he not realize people could see him? 

“Whatever, get a nurse. They’re tubing me Friday. I don’t give a fuck, as long as you quiet down.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can follow me on [tumblr](https://pbjellieao3.tumblr.com/), sometimes I write stuff and post it there. Sometimes I just post memes. It's a dice roll. 
> 
> I take requests though, so that's fun, I guess.


	2. I Am Flirting With You (Jimbo x Liane)

“I’m flirting with you,” Jimbo slurred as he stared at Liane. A brown glass bottle with a label he had previously peeled off sloshed around as he teetered on his feet. 

“Sorry, I didn’t realize,” Liane’s words were clipped. She wasn’t nearly as drunk as he was. It was tacky to drink on the clock. 

“Uh,” Jimbo stuttered, placing his beer on the counter. Skeeter had just opened this place. It seemed like a good enough place to pick up chicks. And Liane, in her snakeskin skirt and chunky platform heels was certainly a chick.

“If you want to go back to my place, it’s fifty an hour. I should really get going back, sitters are expensive. Whether it’s you or someone else, I need to leave.” Liana primped her brown hair, pushing it slowly off of her shoulders. Her red top was low cut, but Jimbo didn’t really mind. 

Randy had made a good point. How could Jimbo know he didn’t like the ladies, it’s not like he’d ever touched a vagina, not a real one anyway. He had the misfortune of going through his Dad’s things and finding a fleshlight, but he tried to minimize that trauma in his mind. 

“How long do these things usually take?” Jimbo asked, even if it was imprudent. It was a business transaction, right? 

“Haven’t you ever slept with a woman before?” The answer to that was no.

“I have, lots of times. Look here, lady. I don’t need you insulting my intelligence like that.” He strolled up towards Skeeter, after flipping Liane the bird for good measure. Thinks she’s hot shit because she’s the only hooker in the town, what a load of crap. He could always just drive to Denver. Surely there’d be a lady in Denver who’d be up for it. 

“Need me to call, Ned?” Skeeter asked, looking bored as he arranged bottles of vodka. 

“Yeah, he took the truck.” Their truck. They shared a truck. Like a couple of homosexuals. They weren’t though. Jimbo was not gay. Randy was right, he just needed to take some woman for a test drive and he’d be cured. Ned would just go back to being his best friend.

No more strange drunk kisses as he crawled into the other man’s bed. It’d be good, like old times. 

No more feelings to muddy it up.


	3. I Don't Care What They Say (Henrietta X Michael)

“I don’t care what they say, it doesn’t mean shit!”

The words bounced around in Henrietta’s brain as she sat the table for her conformist bitch of a mom. She was so demanding. Henrietta set the table. Henrietta have you applied for college. Henrietta did you unload the dishwasher, I really need it done so I can make a casserole.

That bitch would just make a casserole out of her organs and season it with her tears, if she wasn’t so conformist. Henrietta never understood why her mother was so cruel to her.

Why everyone was so cruel?

Why the world was so cruel?

Michael had yelled at her today. Her Michael.

And for what? Because she said she didn’t want to admit to Firkle and Pete that she had an emo playlist on her Spotify account. That’s what they were fighting over, a playlist that Henrietta desperately wanted to keep to herself. 

He had scrolled through her account, looking for some ambient music for a private poetry reading. She hadn’t thought to bury the playlist. Usually they just used his before they talked about how love made them want to drown in the ocean and stab themselves in the eye with butcher knifes.

But instead of his phone, which he had spilled a cup of coffee on in the diner last weekend, he grabbed for hers. She didn’t think she had anything to hide.

It wasn’t until the opening guitar notes of “Ohio is For Lovers” that she realized she screwed up. Michael was laughing, his nose piercing wiggling as he snorted. Normally she’d think that was totally hot, but now she was just mortified.

“Don’t tell them I like Hawthorne Heights,” Henrietta ordered, diving over the bed for the phone.

“Just Hawthorne Heights? What is “The Curse of Curves?” Is it another pop laden bullshit song?” The color drained from her face as he spoke. She frantically wrestled for the phone, straddling him in the process.

He hit play, and he couldn’t stop laughing. “Oh Henry, this is too cute. Look at you, I bet you’ve gone to see their shows, huh?”

“Stop it, Michael!” She wiggled her hips trying to snatch it away. “I never saw Cute is What We Aim for live. Christ, they aren’t even signed with anyone.” His hands were on her hips as she fell forward. They had never been this close before.

“But you would see them live.” He wrapped an arm around her, pressing her closer.

“You can’t tell them about this. I’ll never live it down.”

“Oh, you’re secrets safe with me.” His hands were moving in circles, occasionally pushing the fabric of her dress underneath her bra. She’d have enjoyed it more if her credibility wasn’t about to be blown to shreds.

“You can’t, Michael,” she pleaded as his mouth breathed into her ear.

“Let’s not worry about it. No one really cares about those guys think anyway, right?” His voice sent shivers down her spine, but the chorus was still playing in the background, all bubblegum pop and vanity. They couldn’t know.

“No, you can’t tell them Michael.”

“I don’t care what they say, it doesn’t mean shit!” He shouted, pushing her away. “You’re on top of your boyfriend and all you can think about is your social status. God, why are we even dating?” He stormed out of the room, slamming the door.

“Henrietta, come set the table.” Her mother had called.

God, not that she thought there was a God, and if there was there was totally more than one, the world could be cruel.


	4. (Cryde) You Can Only Suffer Through My Whining For So Long

“You can only suffer through my whining for so long until you get up and make me a sandwich.” Clyde threw his head back over the arm of the couch, making eye contact with Craig. He felt the blood rushing to his head as he scooted back, dangling off the edge. Craig looked strange upside down. 

“Christ, Donovan, you’re so needy,” Craig huffed, crossing his arms as he played Mario Party. He and Token were playing while Clyde just pissed around behind them, occasionally sending snapchats to Tweek of the back of Craig’s head. He captioned them with “jealous” and “me sneakin’ on yo man.” It was hard to tell if he was taking it well or freaking out. 

Honestly, to Clyde it seemed like they weren’t even dating. Their relationship had been so sudden. Some girls draw a bunch of art in the fourth grade and they were still together in eighth? It just seemed unlikely to Clyde. Tweek acted like they were best friends and that’s it. Once, two months ago, Clyde saw Craig try to kiss Tweek and Tweek turned his head away. Who does that to their boyfriend? 

Clyde wouldn’t do that to Craig. 

Not that Craig had any interest in him, whatsoever. 

“I need nourishment!” Clyde protested. Craig was staring at the TV, not bothering to look back at him. Time for Plan B, flattery. “Craig, you make the best sandwiches though. No one on the whole planet makes sandwiches as good as you do!” Clyde knew that Craig was awful at making sandwiches. Sometimes Craig got distracted halfway through putting it together and left the paper on the cheese, or just gave him two pieces of bread with a thin layer of mayo.

“You’re gonna make me lose. Do you really want this rich asshole to win?” Clyde hadn’t wanted to play Mario Party in the first place. They were supposed to be watching a scary movie, since Tweek had to be at the coffee shop. They could play Mario Party with Tweek, he wasn’t that afraid of Yoshi. 

“I want a sandwich.” Clyde whined, doing a sit up to pull himself upright. It’s a good thing he was getting pretty buff from his football career. He was on the B Team, which his Dad said was pretty good, he thought. Maybe if Cartman broke his ankle he’d get moved up to the A Team. 

There was a series of chimes as Craig groaned, throwing a Wii Mote towards the entertainment system. Token laughed, then went to collect the results of Craig’s tantrum. 

“Fine, what kind of sandwich do you want?” 

“Whatever you wanna make.”


	5. Welcome to Fatherhood (Craig Tucker and Thomas Tucker)

“Welcome to fatherhood,” Thomas Tucker smiled, handing his seven year old son an empty metal cage. 

“It’s my birthday. You’re so weird, Dad,” Craig responded, rolling his eyes and shooting the bird. 

“I know your mother thinks it’s cute, but you’ve got to cool it with that finger, kiddo,” Thomas chided, turning around to the kitchen table to pick up a small, white, cardboard box with air holes in the side. 

“Oh,” Craig said, looking at the box in his Dad’s hands. 

“Don’t just oh me, you’re going to be a man soon. I’m trusting you with a lot of responsibility.” 

“You gave me an empty cage,” Craig added, leaning close to see what was in the box. Maybe it was money, or a video game. 

“Meet your new pet,” Thomas’ calloused hands reached into the top of the folded carton, pulling out a black and white guinea pig. “For your birthday, son.” 

“Dad!” Craig screamed. “Guinea Pigs are my favorite! Did you know that they live in the mountains, just like us? And, guess what?” 

Thomas could feel his eyes start to glaze over, but he needed to show interest. Craig never liked anything, and all of a sudden he wouldn’t shut up about Guinea Pigs. “What?” He asked, trying not to regret it. 

“Their teeth grow forever! Can you imagine if your teeth grew forever? You’re really old so your teeth would be like to your ankles. But guinea pigs gnaw on things to wear down their teeth, isn’t that cool?” Craig was raving as he took the small animal from his father hands. Gently he ran his hand down the spine of the animal. “I’m gonna call him Stripe. Stripe is a good Guinea Pig and will learn how to do tricks. Maybe we’ll join the circus, or travel the rails like hobos.” 

Christ, not that, Thomas Tucker thought. “Well, Stripe is a girl. Happy birthday, Craig.”


	6. (Twyle) Do You Really Need All That Candy?

“Do you really need all that candy?” Tweek asked, twisting his head to the side. It was a stupid idea to try and rob a corner store. He knew that. Kyle knew that. It was common knowledge that they’d get caught and go to jail, where awful things would happen. Awful things, but Tweek couldn’t decide if it was worse than listening to Kyle cry over Stan’s engagement to Wendy.

“I’m,” Kyle hiccuped, “I’m gonna do it, dude. There’s no reason to live. Stan picked that, that bitch.” 

He staggered on his feet as Tweek watched, wide eyed. He shouldn’t have let Kyle get so drunk at Skeeter’s. Tweek’s job was to protect him. Make sure he didn’t get in to too much trouble while Stan and Wendy were back at their party, talking about venues. 

It was dick move to invite your best friend who was obviously in love with you to your wedding announcement party. Who even had announcement parties? Tweek had never been married, but he figured from his cousins that you just posted a picture on Facebook, let a hundred people who didn’t really care comment on it, then be done with it. 

“Let’s not steal, it’s too much pressure! I’ll, ngh, I’ll buy you any candy you want, we don’t have to steal anything,” Tweek stared as Kyle unwrapped a chocolate bar right in front of the cashier. He slowly walked towards the register, turning back frequently to check on Kyle. His face was smudged with chocolate, like he couldn’t be bothered to stick the candy properly in his mouth. 

“Anything else?” The lady droned, sighing as she pulled out her phone. 

“No! Just what he’s eating. He’s really nice usually, ngh, he’s a nice guy, a bad day, you know?” Tweek rambled, fishing out a few wadded dollar bills up on the counter, before pulling Kyle outside by his jacket. 

“I just need, I need like, seven more. Maybe only five. Five, five more and I’ll go into diabetic shock, and I’ll die. Stan would like that, wouldn’t he. He could throw a pretentious party for the announcement of my funeral. Say it’s a house party but really it’s just some stupid engagement.” Kyle stumbled towards the street, flicking off a passing truck.

“Nobody is dying!” Tweek screeched, yanking Kyle back onto the sidewalk 

“Lots of people die, Tweek. You gotta know that by now. How many people have died that you know? What’s the list?” Kyle held his hands in front of his face, pulling off his mittens. He started randomly pressing his fingers down. 

“Stop it, I don’t want to talk about this.” 

“There was Richard, your Dad, that’s one. Then Helen. And you were so lucky, you got to live with your boyfriend, isn’t that every fourteen year old gay boys dream? I mean your perfect boyfriend, not that I ever had a boyfriend. No, no, Stan had Wendy,” Tweek was fighting to pull Kyle back towards their apartment, trying to block out the conversation. 

“Kyle, I don’t want to talk about all the dead people I know. I mean I’ve known, can’t really know them if they’re dead, right?” Tweek started, feeling his chest sink. 

“But there’s more Tweek! There’s more! We used to think you were cursed, isn’t that awful of us? God, we were awful. Craig died, do you remember?” Of course Tweek remembered, he thought bitterly. “Senior year? When was it, buddy?” 

“Junior year, three days after Valentine’s Day.” Tweek was still, no longer trying to get Kyle home. 

“”I just thought, maybe, maybe if I became your friend, then I’d die too. So here we are, and I’m not dead. Cartman was wrong, man. Cartman was so wrong. Your presence doesn’t kill people. Nu-uh, it doesn’t do shit. We’ve been friends for like five years, since senior year, and here I am. As I live and breathe or some shit.” 

Tweek sighed, watching Kyle clumsily walk on the icy sidewalks. As he started to fall forward Tweek grabbed for his arm, pulling him upright. 

“You’re such a good friend, Tweek. So good, you’re my favorite. You know? Even if you do a lot of drugs, and those drugs are bad for you, still my favorite. You,” Kyle pressed a finger into Tweek’s chest, “you are honest and real. You wouldn’t throw a stupid party. No, your parties would be cool. No bullshit Wendy there to make the eyes at you.” 

“Kyle, let’s get you home and go to bed, okay?”


	7. (Twenny) You Need To See A Doctor

“You need to see a doctor,” Tweek coughed, looking up at Kenny. 

“Me? I need to see a doctor?” Kenny joked, pressing into the open wound on his arm. He’d be fine, even if he died, he’d just come back. He always come back. 

“Nrgh, yeah dude, you come into the shop bleeding, like to death. And you’re joking? So much blood, nrg, how are you awake?” Tweek asked, looking back at the register. 

“How are you still awake, it’s three in the goddamn morning. Don’t they ever let you go home?” Kenny knew he would be fine. It wasn’t all his blood anyway., some of it was Cartman’s. Not a lot, he didn’t want to be charged with murder, not before he got his diploma anyway. 

“I live here. I’ve always lived here,” Tweek’s head drooped against the counter, leaning a cheek on the wooden butcher block. 

“Just hand me some napkins, huh? I’m bleedin’ all over your floor. Hate to make more work for your exhausted self.” Kenny watched as Tweek slowly got up, shuffling his feet as he hobbled towards the napkin dispenser. It took him three tried to pull out a paper napkin, and that one ripped straight down the middle.

There was a sigh from Tweek as he just picked up the whole container, eyes dead as he dropped it on the counter. Kenny dug his hands in, pulling out a wad of the cheap brown paper and shoving it into the knife wound in his arm. Who the hell sold Eric a switchblade?

“Are you real?” Tweek asked, mumbling into the counter again. “I can’t remember when I last slept. Maybe, nrgh, sleeping now.” 

“Christ, how are your parents not in jail?” Kenny said, pushing the napkins harder into his arm. 

“Real likable, gotta be likable, ngh, likable people can do bad things,” Tweek said, eyes still closed. 

“Buddy, let’s get you laying down, huh?” Kenny abandoned stopping the bleeding in his arm, opting instead to sneak behind the counter and maneuver Tweek’s sleeping form into a booth. 

“Gotta watch the, ngh, the shop. Everybody has a job in this family, Tweek, ngh. You, you watch, nrgh, shop,” he twitched as Kenny walked him over to the table. He laid him down, smearing a little bit of blood on his apron. 

“I’ll watch the shop. It’ll be easy, no one comes in here at night, anyway.” Kenny pulled off his orange hoodie, trying to fold it in such a way as to hide the blood and shoved it near Tweek. 

“The books, Kenny, cook the books,” Tweek said, moving the dirty coat under his head. “Gotta be open at night to cook the books. We sell a hundred, nrg, hundred cups of coffee an hour, an hour. Over two thousand cups in a day, nrgh, it’s a lot.” 

“Just take a nap. I’ll get you up for class.”


	8. (Goth Kids) You're Getting A Vasectomy. That's Final.

“You’re getting a vasectomy. That’s final,” Henrietta glared at Pete. His hair was no longer the vibrant red it was when they were kids, instead styled in a boring businessman cut. They had all gotten boring, save Henrietta. 

“Henry, you can’t just make decisions for my family,” Pete said in an even steady tone as he ate pancakes. For Christ’s sake, he was ordering food at Benny’s not just chugging down coffee as he ashed on their cheap tables. He hadn’t even smoked in seven years.

He wasn’t even goth anymore. None of them were.

Save for Henrietta.

“It’s a little out of control, Pete,” Michael chimed in, drinking from his orange juice. Henrietta was excited they were all in town together, but shit if these monthly get-togethers didn’t get more disappointing as time marched on. 

“It’s called having a family,” Firkle said, sipping a coffee. Society hadn’t beat him into a conformist yet, but Henrietta was sure it would soon. He had just graduated from Business School with a B.A, took him seven years and lots of Daddy’s money. It was only a matter of time until he was sucking his bosses taint for a promotion. 

She was smarter than all that. She ran a small shop that sold crystals and animal skulls in Denver, occasionally traveling to conventions to sell her wares, and worked as a burlesque dancer on the side. She wasn’t chained to a nine to five, not her. She still was allowed to be her own person. Not like the conformists that were once her partners in crime. 

“You’ve got three kids, how many more could you possibly need?” Henrietta asked, loudly. “Are you starting a militia? Joining a cult?” 

“I saw a documentary on the Quiverfull movement and they like, don’t even believe in birth control. How can you not in believe in something that obviously exists?” Michael had a point, but Henrietta was too upset by the whole situation to comment on the oppression of women in Christian communities. 

“She’s obviously trying to trap you with her ovaries,” Henrietta said, instead. 

“God, I was the one who wanted more kids, me! I was lonely as a kid and thought it’d be nice to have a big family. Christ, you guys can be judgmental.” 

They were judgmental, he wasn’t wrong. They wanted what was best for him. And to Henrietta, having four kids while he managed a Best Buy was not his best option.

“Well, cheers to conception, I guess,” Firkle crinkled his nose as he clinked his coffee cup against an orange juice. Was Michael really drinking orange juice and wearing a purple button up? Not even dark purple, a lilac monstrosity with a tie that hung around his neck like a noose. 

“Cheers,” Henrietta groaned.


	9. (Randy&Stan) What do you mean? It's exciting!

“What do you mean? It's exciting!” Randy shouted into a crowd of drunk college students as Stan looked around the fraternity.

“I thought it was dry here,” Stan said softly, staring out at a tall blonde man doing a handstand on a keg. “We just came here to tour the campus.” 

“But son, son. What's, what is a tour,” Randy elongated the word tripping over a busty brunette whose top was around her waist, “without knowing the night life? The night life is the whole point of college, Stan,” Randy belched as they waded through the crowd. 

“But I'm sober, I've been sober for like two years,” Stan knew it had been two years, one month and seventeen days, but his dad didn't care for that kind of precision. Stan was starting to think that his dad didn't really care about his sobriety at all. 

“That was high school, college is, college is different,” Randy picked up a red solo cup from a table, offering it to Stan.

“It's not. I can't drink. I just can't.”

“You lack, rack, pack? Something about discipline, son, discipleship, or something,” Randy shouted over the general noise of the party. “It's Denver, how lame is it to not even be able to get drunk, I mean, drink, you don't have to be drink, just drunk something.” 

“Dad, let's just go home, this isn't the right college for me,” Stan fished the keys out of his father's front pocket as he shotgunned back his drink. Stan had liked the college just fine, but this was a disaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still on the tumblr, still taking requests.


	10. (Cryde) I'm Not Going To Stop Poking You Until You Give Me Some Attention

“I’m not going to stop poking you until you give me some attention,” Clyde screamed, staring up at the hanging metal lights in the gym. Craig had been buried in his phone from the moment he got out during dodge ball. Clyde took it upon himself to throw his body in front of Token. He played it off like he was being a good friend, but really he just wanted to be on the sidelines with Craig. 

“Christ, Donovan, what could you possibly want from me,” Craig groaned. “You made me lose Fruit Ninja.” Craig stuffed his phone into his gym shorts, was the phone in his underwear. Clyde thought that was pretty gross, but decided not to mention it. 

“Uh, I just wanted to talk, buddy,” Clyde said, running a hand through his sweaty hair. He tried to peel it off of his forehead, in order to look cool, but instead it just stuck straight up. 

He did not look cool. 

“About what?” Craig droned, rolling his eyes as he leaned back on his elbows. The wooden bleachers were old, creaking whenever Clyde tried to scoot closer. 

“I don’t know, best friend stuff, because we’re best friends.”

“Your point is?” Craig sighed, fishing around for his phone again. 

“I just wanted to spend some quality time with my best bro, that’s all,” Clyde leaned forward, trying to catch a glimpse of Craig’s screen. 

“You could use some quality time with some soap and deodorant,” Craig added, angling his phone out of the others view. They sat there in silence until the coach shouted for them to get back for a new game. 

Clyde thought that it could have gone worse.


	11. (Damien/Tweek) I'm Not Going To Apologize For This. Not Anymore.

“I’m, nrg, not going to apologize for this. Not- not anymore,” Tweek said, weaving his hand with Damien’s. 

“We both know this is stupid,” Damien chastised, ripping his hand away. “We’re not even a couple.” 

Tweek inhaled around his cigarette, using his now free hand to fiddle with his lighter. It was cold behind the coffee shop, snow sliding off the rooftops at uneven intervals. The sporadic wet thuds made Tweek jump. 

Without thinking Damien wrapped an arm around Tweek’s shoulders, pressing into the muscles in his collarbone with his thumb. These things were easy for them: the physical contact, the quiet moments, the immediate comfort. Actual feelings, that’s where the whole mess became muddled. 

“You’re break is almost over,” Damien said coldly, removing his hands from Tweek, as if he was touching something diseased. As if this was not the man he had found himself in bed with last night, curling into his side once it was all over, crying for Pip. They hardly even looked the same. Sure they each had blonde hair, but Tweek’s was far too wild, too unruly. No sober person would ever mistake the two. 

Pip was in hell, anyway, and it wasn’t as if Damien could go back there. 

“Not like they pay me anyway,” Tweek spat out, ashing onto the pavement. “It’s not, nrg, not like, ah fucking shit!” He shouted, recoiling as he shook burning ash off of his hand. “Bloody hell.”

“You don’t say that,” Damien puffed up, towering about Tweek, hands on either side of him in the alley. He expected Tweek to flinch, to turn away, but instead he just went back to smoking. 

“Thought you’d, nrgh, you would like it,” Tweek said calmly, looking past Damien’s shoulders. “You’re obviously, obviously, nrg, hung up on him. I don’t mind being a replacement, better than, nrgh, better than being no one.” Smoke snaked out of his mouth as he stared at the dumpsters.

“God, you’re such a tool,” Damien rolled his eyes, turning away from the blonde man. He tried not to think about how he was too tall. How he wasn’t as cheerful as his true companion. He fought to push the thoughts that the only thing Pip and Tweek really shared was that they had both been outcasts during their school years. 

Instead he turned back, trying to imagine that stupid bow tie on around his lanky neck, his hair styled in a chin length bob, and sighed. 

“Try to be less of a tool, okay Pip?” Damien growled, figuring that something was probably better than nothing. At least for now. 

“Cheerio, Damien,” Tweek said in a strained falsetto, “I’ve got, nrgh, got to sell crumpets and tea to my lovely customers.” He smashed the cigarette into the wall, smearing the black ash until he scraped his knuckles against the brick. 

“You’re insufferable, Tweek,” Damien shouted as Tweek turned the corner. There was a brief flash of a middle finger as Tweek let out a dry laugh.


	12. (Dip Damien/Pip) Looks Like We'll Be Stuck Here For A While

“Looks like we'll be stuck here for a while,” Pip shivered, pressing into Damien's shoulder. Even when he aged himself up to twenty, which was Damien's favorite age, he was nearly a third of a meter shorter than the giant. 

He supposed being Satan's offspring had some perks, even if they were trapped in a spare bedroom in his fathers house as Saddam started a fight. Damien protectively wrapped an arm around him, slowly bringing Pip into a hug. 

“Don't worry about it, nothing can hurt us,” Damien said in a steady voice. “I've got you.” 

“I'm already dead,” Pip said with a smile, “it's okay as long as you're here.” There was a metallic clatter as Saddam shrieked about some other man. Pip could just make out the calming repetition of Satan's voice, no, honey, it's fine, honey, put down the wine bottle, honey. 

“You're too upbeat for your own good, you know that?” Damien said, a smirk making his way to his lips as he goosed Pip. 

“Hey!” Pip hissed, blushing. “We're at your father's home, that isn't very polite. You've got to have good manners, Damien. Didn't anyone ever teach you that?”

“Nope,” he said, hand still resting firmly on his boyfriend's ass. “I've never heard of manners.” 

“Damien,” Pip scolded, leaning in closer. He rose to his tiptoes as he let his lips graze over Damien's. “Manners are important. Do you want me to teach you some?” 

Damien rolled his eyes, but nodded anyway, removing his hand as he stared at Pip. There was still screaming outside, but it didn't seem to matter quite as much as Pip taught him how to say the word please. 

And how to really mean it.


	13. Hello (KipxKyle)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stop posting so much on Facebook, Kyle. 
> 
> Also you reading this, stop giving away so much information to an awful company.
> 
> Request: 
> 
> Gimme a Kipyle fic. Obviously unrequited, from Kip's pov (pref second person.) Destroy me. You know exactly how to do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm reviving this, so have fun yall. Requests can be sent to PBJell on Tumblr.

Facebook is your favorite. Out of all the social media sites to come and go, there have been plenty and you have tried them all, Facebook is your favorite.   
  
It's good that Facebook is your favorite, because Facebook is also your boyfriend's favorite.   
  
He posts everything about himself there. He tags when he's at the movies with his best friend, Stan. They went to the same college together, because they're best friends. You think it's good he has such a strong support system. He writes about how hard his first year at college is. You have faith in him. You know that he can figure out anything, he's so resourceful.   
  
You remember the time that he fixed the steering wheel with duct tape. You know it's a Toyota from the pictures, and you're pretty sure it's a Corolla, though you're not the best at identifying cars. He's more of the mechanic than you are.   
  
He's good with his hands. You're not great with yours, but you like his efforts. He likes to draw, he drew Mario for his little brother, for his birthday. The nose was a little off, but you liked it anyways. You like to follow the rules of if you don't have anything nice to say, then don't say anything at all.   
  
Kyle doesn't but that's fine. You are not bound to the same rules as him; you are different people after all.  
  
You are taking a gap year. It's a gap year, not staying in your parent's basement and talking to your boyfriend. They aren't the most accepting, but you are sure it'll pass. You put in an admission to Colorado State, and you think you might get in. You couldn't pick when Kyle was still undecided, so you just waited.   
  
A gap year never hurt anyone.   
  
Kyle likes to post motivational pictures about how Oprah and Tina Fey weren't famous until they were older. You didn't know who Tina Fey was before Kyle. He is always opening up your horizons.   
  
He went on vacation to Chicago, with his family, not with Stan, though he wrote that he missed Stan. He took a picture next to the Bean, his face distorted. He was still pretty.   
  
He is always so pretty.   
  
He's so pretty that you print your favorites, and there are a lot of favorites.  
  
You can't trust technology, after all. What if Facebook crashed? How would you see your boyfriend?   
  
It'd be hard to borrow your parents car and snap candids from a distance if you didn't know Kyle would be at a symposium against hate speech. He likes to tell you ahead of time, so you can meet him.   
  
He always smiles at you when you wave.   
  
His smile gives you goosebumps.   
  
You can't wait until your studying pre-law, just like him. Then you can go see the same bands at the same dive bars. He can bring you instead of Stan, and you can take pictures with the forward facing camera.   
  
You don't use that one very much. You're much more interested in him. You know what your face looks like, and you can look at it whenever you want.   
  
You snicker to yourself, face lit by the glow of the computer.   
  
He's only ever a few clicks away. 


	14. uWu (Kyman?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Request: 
> 
> The Noirette part two but it’s about Kyman fanfiction
> 
>  
> 
> But I didn't follow instructions and it's about fanart. Shoot me, I guess.

 "That should do it."   
  
Seeing Cartman stick pamphlets into lockers made Kyle's stomach turn. What was he distributing? Kyle had a hunch it was some sort of hate speech, like a crusade against gingers, or Jews, or outtie belly buttons.   
  
They were in high school; 9th graders were supposed to be more mature. His mom had given him a big speech about being a mature adult, one that echoed his Bar Mitzvah where she lectured him for an hour about being grown. He was fourteen now, he didn't need to be taught how to be respectful of women every third day.   
  
When Kyle opened his locker, there wasn't anything in it.   
  
Suspicious.   
  
He had seen one go into Milly's locker. He'd seen his fat ass fat fucking fingers jam the paper through the metal slats. It looked like a toddler trying to thread a dollar bill into a vending machine.  
  
He was going to be a mature adult, and let it go. That's what ninth graders did, they just let things go that bothered them. High school was supposed to be different.  
  
It was only the first week, and Kyle wasn't willing to ruin his year. This was going to be different.   
  
He hadn't even talked to Cartman all summer.   
  
Which really, that was a dream come true. He'd spent the summer playing video games with Stan and real sports with Kenny. And occasionally, if he just wanted to be around someone annoying, he'd spend time with Ike.   
  
And it was a great summer. It was wonderful and refreshing, and he was a new Kyle.   
  
That fresh coat of new Kyle lasted until Milly looked at the paper Kyle saw Cartman slide into her locker. She smirked, and then, Milly, that bitch, she giggled.   
  
What was she giggling about? Kyle could only imagine. Was Milly racist? Maybe. Kyle wasn't so sure that she wasn't. Maybe it was about him. She was looking at him. Milly was staring at him through her ridiculous glasses, and in that moment he was very sure she was racist.   
  
"What's so funny?" Kyle asked through gritted teeth. "Why are you laughing?"   
  
"Nothing," Milly lied. Milly had the guts to lie to him. Silly Milly. Last year she'd asked him to the Sadie Hawkins and he said no, because he wasn't interested.   
  
Probably because she was racist. He just didn't know that yet.   
  
"Have fun with your nothing," Kyle said, slamming his locker door and storming off to first period.   
  
Everyone had one. Everyone.   
  
Including Kenny.   
  
"What is that?" Kyle asked, grabbing it from Kenny's hands. He didn't get a response before he saw what appeared to Asian art.   
  
Art of his butthole.   
  
Kyle had no control over the scream that erupted from him. He tore the paper, trying to see the rest. Eric was there, because why wouldn't Eric be involved. It was his monstrous hands that had distributed this bullshit, of course a depiction of what was certainly not his penis, flaccid or otherwise was involved.   
  
They changed in one big room, he knew that Cartman wasn't that well endowed. All of the boys knew, but they were still snickering.   
  
"Are we not gay anymore?" Craig asked, in his dull monotone. Tweek shushed him, grabbing the paper they'd been sharing. He was studying it, like he was enjoying it.   
  
"My hips don't look like that!" Kyle shouted, pulling the paper away from Tweek. Well, he tried to pull it away. Tweek gripped it like a lifeline, wrestling it away and stuffing it in his pocket. "Why are you hiding it?"   
  
"It's good, man." Tweek shrugged. Tweek shrugged like it didn't even matter. "I don't like having to look at porn on the family computer. Get's weird."   
  
"You look at porn?" Craig asked. Kyle threw his hands up in the air as Tweek explained how his father went back and judged the content he had jacked off to. He felt vomit crawl up his throat when Craig replied, "cool."   
  
Tweek Tweak, and presumably Craig as well, since they were joined at the goddamn hip, was going to jack off to this false image of him. He would have been flattered (no he wouldn't have) if it was a real likeness, and not some chick with sparkling eyes who had a super tiny penis.  
  
His dick was fine, and if anyone's dick looked like the redhead labeled Kyle, it was Eric's.   
  
When the teacher came into the room and told everyone to take a seat, Kyle decided he was just going to ditch. Adults got to call off of work when the bullshit of the world was just too much, he'd seen his dad do it. If Kyle was a real adult now, that meant he was in control of his own sick days.   
  
If he spent that sick day trying to draw an anatomically correct representation of his dick, that was his business. 

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow me on [tumblr](https://pbjell.tumblr.com/), sometimes I write stuff and post it there. Sometimes I just post memes. It's a dice roll. 
> 
> I take requests though, so that's fun, I guess.


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